


All To Yourself

by sorrowfulcheese



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Mushy, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/pseuds/sorrowfulcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't really a story. When I was working on The Champion In Exile I needed to do some character-building for Hawke and I wanted to work out how she felt about herself and her family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All To Yourself

    Slouched in her chair, Hawke had stretched her legs beneath the table and settled her bare feet in his lap. Very slowly she began to press her feet alternately forward, kneading in cat-like fashion, deliberately caressing him to aching erection. He shifted and spread his legs to make it easier for her, and did his best to keep from flushing too obviously.  
  
    "Anders?" He started, looked up the table to Leandra, who watched him curiously. "Did you enjoy your dinner?" She smiled.  
  
    "It was wonderful," he said honestly. "Orana's a terrific cook."  
  
    "I hope you'll stay tonight," she said.  
  
    He blinked. "Pardon me?" Hawke drew the toes of one foot down the entire length of him, slowly, and he stuffed his last forkful of food into his mouth, chewed furiously.  
  
    "You left so quickly after supper the other night," Leandra went on. "I hope you can stay for coffee at least. It's nice for Marian to have a friend over—"  
  
    "I'm not a child, Mother," Hawke said. "This isn't a play date."  
  
    "I'll play with you," Anders promised her.  
  
    She managed somehow to get one foot beneath his tunic, hooked her toes over the waistband of his trousers and tugged them down a little. He gritted his teeth. "You better," she said, as she drained her wine glass and set it on the table with a thump. Orana appeared from nowhere to refill the glass.  
  
    "Marian," Leandra sighed. "Can you not be at least a little ladylike? Sit up in your chair." With a shake of her head she looked at Anders again. "I really did raise her better than this," she went on. "She does it solely to bother me."  
  
    "Just my way of taking revenge, Mother," Hawke said sweetly, and smiled. There was menace behind the smile that Leandra did not see—or perhaps chose not to see.  
  
    It was so strange to him that someone whose family hadn't abandoned her simply for being a mage disliked her family so much. He would have given anything to have his mother back; she'd wept when he'd been taken away, and he had only one little thing of hers—  
  
    "May I get you some more?" Orana spoke so softly he hardly heard her.  
  
    "Oh," he said, "no, I've had enough. Thank you." She inclined her head and slipped away with his dishes.  
  
    "Why don't we take coffee in the sitting room," Leandra suggested. "You two go get comfortable. I'll help Orana make the coffee, and then I'll join you."  
  
    "That would be lovely, Mother," Hawke said, and gulped down the last of her wine. She withdrew her feet, sat up in her chair. Anders made a little face at her. Hawke smiled faintly, stepped into her shoes and stood. Leandra rose and attempted to follow Orana to the kitchen, but the elven girl could not bear to let anyone follow her. Leandra assured her it was really all right, but Orana simply shook her head in protest.  
  
    While they argued, Hawke made her way to the sitting room, and Anders hurried after her. As soon as they were safely out of sight he grabbed her hips and pulled her against him, pressed hard against her backside. He gripped the fabric of her skirt with both hands and inched it up. "What are you doing?" she murmured over her shoulder.  
  
    "What does it look like I'm doing?" he returned. "Rather, what does it feel like I'm doing?"  
  
    "Feels like you're aiming for a quickie while Mother makes coffee."  
  
    "You are observant." He unfastened his trousers and Hawke braced herself with her hands on the mantel of the fireplace. On reaching up to take down her underthings he discovered she was wearing none and had to stifle a low growl of pleasure. He gripped her hips again and thrust into her, thrilled at Hawke's soft inhalation, the way she rose on her toes to push back against him, the way her fingers had tightened on the mantel's stone, the way she was already wet and welcoming. He stood still like this, to savour the combined sensations for a moment or two. "Maker," he muttered into her ear, "but I do love you."  
  
    "You love _this_ , anyway," Hawke laughed breathlessly. Anders put one hand on the mantel next to hers and the other up the front of her skirt, and he wasted no more time; he flattened the palm of his hand hard against her and pumped his hips rapidly. He came with a groan and a gasp; Hawke dropped a hand to cover his, used their fingers together to make herself climax. They separated swiftly and Anders used a small spell to dry away the evidence of their tryst. "Cheater," Hawke accused him, and Anders grinned. They rearranged their clothing, and as Leandra entered the room with a tray of coffee and cakes Anders pulled Hawke into his arms for a deep kiss, to explain away their flushed cheeks, their uneven breaths.  
  
    She set the tray on a low table and looked at the two of them with a small smile. "You remind me," she said, "of when Malcolm and I were still young."  
  
    "Mother," Hawke scolded, and slid away from him, "Anders is nothing like you." She crossed the room and poured herself a cup of black coffee, remained bent over the tray rather longer than necessary.  
  
    "Really, Marian," Leandra returned. "Must you make everything a joke?"  
  
    "I wasn't joking," Hawke assured her. "Everyone who's ever known us both has said that except that I haven't got literal balls, I'm—"  
  
    "Marian!"  
  
    "—just like Father. Which means if we remind you of you and Father, Anders would have to be you."  
  
    "You're impossible."  
  
    "I got that from him too."  
  
    Leandra sighed, poured coffee for Anders and sweetened it the way he liked, pale with cream. "Here you are," she said. "I'd apologise again for her, but you obviously don't seem to mind."  
  
    He glanced at Hawke, who slouched low in her favourite overstuffed chair, stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. Her skirt rode halfway up her thighs and Anders felt his cheeks grow warm again. Hawke blew on her coffee to cool it and watched him with some amusement. "Well," he said, and looked back at Leandra. "She does grow on you."  
  
    "Like fungus," Hawke said.  
  
    "Marian."  
  
    "Yes, Mother?"  
  
    "Please."  
  
    Hawke rolled her eyes and sipped at her coffee. Anders sidled across the room to sit in a chair near hers, set his cup and saucer down on the arm of the chair. Leandra perched on the edge of her own chair, facing them, and sipped delicately at her own heavily sweetened coffee.  
  
    She had been raised in wealth and privilege, but had fled all that to marry an apostate. It never failed to astound him that women could—and did—simply do mad things for love. He didn't know a man alive, had never known one, who would abandon a life of comfort to live on the run, for the sake of a woman. He looked at Hawke, who watched her reflection in the surface of her coffee. If he hadn't been born a mage, if he'd been born to some noble family, would he still have fallen for her? She wore armour, walked and talked and swore and drank like a man, kept her hair unstylishly short and untidy, and deliberately said things to shock and offend. He probably wouldn't even have given her a second look.  
  
    His chest tightened at the thought of life without her, and he had to inhale deeply to relieve the ache there.  
  
    Of course it was moot; if he hadn't been born a mage he never would have met her.  
  
     _But Leandra met Malcolm..._  
  
    "Stop staring at me," Hawke said quietly. "Drink your coffee."  
  
    Anders picked up his cup and saucer and drank down his coffee.  
  
    "What are your plans for tomorrow?" Leandra asked, her cup and saucer balanced perfectly on her knee.  
  
    "Breakfast," Hawke said. "And then, probably rambling around Lowtown to pick some fights with random gangs who seem determined to kill me. Then lunch at the Hanged Man with Varric. Might pop in and see how Merrill's doing, take her shopping." She sipped her coffee and watched Leandra over her cup. "Back up to Hightown to get attacked again, possibly by Carta. Maybe home for a nice supper. Then to the docks to take care of a little problem with some smugglers, planning to land around midnight. That one," she said pointedly to her mother, "is at the behest of the Captain of the Guard."  
  
    Leandra's lips tightened, and she turned slightly in her chair to face Anders. "How about the only other adult in the room?" she asked. His ears burned; he generally made it a policy not to get caught between Hawke and her mother.  
  
    He cleared his throat. "I have patients," he said. "At the clinic. So I'll be there most of the day."  
  
    "How refreshing," Leandra said. "Someone who likes to spend time in non-violent pursuits."  
  
    Anders cast a sidelong look at Hawke, who sat serenely drinking coffee, apparently unfazed by her mother's tone. "I just feel that if I can be of any help, I might as well be," he said, apologetic.  
  
    "You might teach my daughter a few things." Leandra smiled.  
  
    "Oh," said Hawke, "he teaches me lots of things." Anders thanked the Maker silently that she chose not to elaborate on just what he had taught her.  
  
    "Then I am sorry you choose not to make use of them." Leandra set aside her empty cup. "Thank you for coming to dinner, Anders. Orana will clear things away when you're done. I think I'll excuse myself and read a little before going to bed."  
  
    "Good night, Mother," Hawke said, and finished her own coffee.  
  
    Leandra swept out of the room and up the stairs, and Anders turned to look at Hawke. She raised an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
    "You're not very nice to her," he said softly.  
  
    "She's not nice to me, Anders. Why should I be nice to her?"  
  
    "She's your mother."  
  
    "She gave birth to me, yes."  
  
    "And raised you and protected you and loved you—" Hawke set her cup and saucer down on the floor and stood.    
  
    "Father raised and protected me," she said softly, "until I was seven. Everything after that, I did for myself." She turned and stalked out of the room. Anders watched her go, thoughtful, listened as she climbed the stairs.  
  
    He sighed, stood and began to gather the cups and saucers. Orana slid into the room, a pale and anxious shadow. "Master Anders," she said, "I am so sorry—"  
  
    "For what?" he asked, as she scooped the dishes from his hands.  
  
    "For not realising sooner that you were done." She stacked the saucers, set the cups neatly into one another.  
  
    "Orana," he said, "don't worry about that. Listen, I need a couple of bottles of wine."  
  
    "Red or white?" she asked.  
  
    "Red," he decided. She slipped away before he could stop her.  
  
     _This is not a good idea._ That was Justice, whispering faintly. Anders closed off his mind to the scolding hiss, ignored it. Justice didn't like him drinking at all; it kept Anders from focusing.  
  
    But Anders had Anders things to do tonight, not Justice things, and he wanted red wine to go with them.  
  
    Orana returned with the bottles, a corkscrew, and two glasses, all on a small tray. Anders grinned. "How do you know I'm not going to drink this all myself?" he asked.  
  
    She looked up at him. "Are you?" she wondered.  
  
    "No. I just think it's wonderful that you knew that." He transferred a half-dozen cakes from the coffee tray to the little one that Orana held, then took the tray from her. "Thank you, Orana." He carried this all upstairs to Hawke's room.  
  
    There he found Hawke staring out the window, her shoulder resting against the wall, her arms folded. She had changed into the loose undershirt and trousers she usually wore to bed—no frilly nightgowns for her, he thought with some amusement. Anders pushed the door shut with his foot, carried the tray to the bedside table and set it down. He reached down and unfastened the clasps that held his coat shut, draped it over the chair; he unbuckled his boots and set them beside the chair. In just his tunic and trousers and socks, he crossed the room to stand behind Hawke, wrapped his arms around her middle, kissed her neck. "I brought us something to drink," he said. "And some cake." She leaned slightly back against him but said nothing. With his arms still around her he began to walk backward, dragged her toward the bed and sat down on it. "Get up here with me," he said. "Or do I have to do that, too?"  
  
    Hawke sighed. "All right," she said, and rolled herself around and over him to lie on the bed. She stared up at the canopy. "Do you think I'm an awful person?" she wondered.  
  
    "What do you want me to say to that?" he asked. He climbed over her and sat with his back to the headboard, reached for one of the wine bottles and the corkscrew. Hawke turned her head to watch him uncork the bottle.  
  
    "The truth, I suppose," she said. "I expect the answer is 'yes'."  
  
    "Daft," he accused her, and wriggled the cork free. "No fancy decanter," he went on, "just glasses."  
  
    "Like I care." She folded her hands over her belly and resumed staring at the canopy.  
  
    "Why do you hate your mother?" he asked.  
  
    "I don't hate her."  
  
    "It seems to me that you take every opportunity to say or do something that upsets her."  
  
    "Maybe she's really easily upset."  
  
    "Or maybe," he said, as he reached for the wine glasses, "you know exactly what to say to upset her."  
  
    "It doesn't matter what I say, Anders," she told him crossly. "So I just say what I bloody well feel like saying."  
  
    "Sit up to drink," he coaxed her, as he poured a glass nearly full. Hawke sat up and took the glass from him, took a long drink from it. He poured a glass for himself, set the bottle and his glass aside, picked up one of the little cakes and broke it apart. "Here." He offered a piece to Hawke, pulled it away when she tried to take it in her hand, and held it up for her to eat from his fingers. She did, and watched him with narrowed eyes as she chewed.  
  
    "You know my father called the Chantry on me," he continued, and took up his own glass again. He sipped it, savoured the rich fruity taste as it filled his mouth, his head, and left a warm trail to his belly.  
  
    "Yes, I know that."  
  
    "My mother didn't have the nerve to stop him, I suppose. He locked me in my room until the Templars came. They chained me up and hauled me away."  
  
    "You've told me."  
  
    "Your parents didn't do that to you."  
  
    Hawke sighed. "Father was an apostate, Anders. You know that. And Mother was well aware that having children with him meant the risk of having mage children with him."  
  
    "But she took that risk, and she didn't send you away."  
  
    "Mm." She drank half her wine in one gulp, sighed wearily. "I don't want to talk about Mother anymore." She opened her mouth and waited, and Anders popped a small piece of cake between her lips.  
  
    "Then tell me about your father."  
  
    "What's to tell?" she shrugged, and looked down at her glass, swallowed the cake. "He's dead."  
  
    "You said earlier that he raised you and protected you until you were seven. What happened then?"  
  
    "Carver and Bethany happened," Hawke said with a shrug. "And my parents were so focused on them that I sort of got left to my own devices." She shrugged again, finished her wine and held out her glass for more. Anders obliged, fed her more cake, and waited. Hawke eyed him askance. "What?" she said.  
  
    "Well, just because your parents had other children, didn't mean they didn't love you anymore. You don't believe that, do you?"  
  
    Hawke sighed, tilted her glass and drank it all, handed the glass back to him. She lay back down on the bed, licked her lips, turned her head and looked at him. "I don't want to talk." She held out one arm to him and beckoned. He leaned over her, let her draw him down for just a quick kiss, then pulled away. Hawke frowned. "What's wrong?" she wondered.  
  
    "Nothing's wrong," Anders told her. He popped a piece of cake into his mouth and ate it, washed it back with wine. "But Anders is off limits until Hawke talks to him about her feelings." He settled back against the headboard.  
  
    Hawke stared at him. "I'm feeling a little annoyed right now," she told him.  
  
    Anders shrugged, sipped his wine. "Hawke," he said, "you know everything about me. At this point in my life, you know more about me than anyone else in the world. But all I know about you is the little bits and pieces you deign to let slip. My parents abandoned me to the care of strangers when I needed them most, and you had yours for most of the life you've lived so far. I want to hear about your life, every detail up until the day you stormed into my clinic demanding maps, and until I hear every bit of it, no sex for you." He finished his wine, poured himself another glass.  
  
    Hawke rolled to her side, her back to him, and curled up, scowling. Anders finished his wine and polished off the rest of the cake, plus another whole one. He squirmed to lie behind Hawke, tucked his arm around her middle. "I thought there was no sex for me," she grumbled.  
  
    "This isn't sex," Anders assured her. "We're both still dressed." He spooned comfortably behind her and closed his eyes. "You really don't want to tell me anything about yourself, do you?" he said softly. "Why is that? What are you afraid for me to know?"  
  
    "I'm a petty, selfish person, Anders."  
  
    "Please, I already knew that." He kissed the back of her neck, breathed in the scent of her hair. "I adore you despite it."  
  
    "You are full of shit."  
  
    "Yet you keep me around."  
  
    "I keep you around for the sex, Anders."  
  
    He laughed. "It is a good reason to keep me," he agreed. "But I think you wouldn't give me the free run of your home if I was here just for sex. You could get that just as easily at the Rose."  
  
    "Not as conveniently or as cheaply as having it in my own bed."  
  
    "But the option is there. You could also have Isabela over every night. She'd happily fuck you for free and then leave afterward, if you wanted."  
  
    Hawke sighed. "I've seen her at your clinic too often to want that."  
  
    He kissed her neck again. "She thinks she hit the jackpot, a free cure for anything she might contract. I'm sure she wasn't so careless before. But that's beside the point. Admit you love having me around."  
  
    "It's all right," Hawke said. "Mother seems to like you."  
  
    "I'm not always making rude comments to her," he reminded her. "Tell me why you're so angry with her all the time."  
  
    "Did you bring wine up here in the hopes that you'd get me drunk so I'd spill all my secrets?"  
  
    "I brought you wine," he said quietly, "because you like red wine. And yes, I thought it might help relax you a little. No, I did not plan to get you drunk and make you spill your secrets."  
  
    Hawke made a dubious sound and lay silent for a minute or two. "You're really going to hold out on me," she said.  
  
    "Hawke, if you can't confide in me, what am I here for? Yes, I'm going to hold out on you. If you want it that badly, you'll talk. If you don't, I'll know that I don't mean enough to you for you to let me get past the walls you keep around your heart."  
  
    "Oh," Hawke snapped, "that's low."  
  
    "And it's true."  
  
    She rolled to face him, scowling. "Do you really think that of me?" she demanded. "That I just let you stay here so I can fuck you whenever I want?"  
  
    "Prove me wrong, Hawke. Let me have a peek past those walls."  
  
    "There are no walls."  
  
    "Even Merrill can see there are walls, and Merrill doesn't see giant Qunari wandering around in the city." Hawke snorted at that. Anders reached up and cupped her cheek, kissed her mouth lightly. "Whenever you're ready to talk," he said, "I'll listen."  
  
    Hawke sighed and watched him for several minutes. "Douse the lamps," she said. Anders rolled out of the bed and obeyed, felt his way back in and stretched out on his back. "I don't want you looking at me," Hawke said softly.  
  
    "I can't see in the dark."  
  
    "I don't want you even facing me, because I don't want to think of the way you're looking at me when I tell you things."  
  
    "So you plan to tell me things."  
  
    "That's why the lights are out." He turned to his side, facing her. "I said I don't want you facing me."  
  
    "I can't see in the dark, love." He felt her squirm around so her back was to him again, and he spooned with her once more, wrapped an arm tightly around her middle. "So you can't get away from me," he teased. Hawke sighed.  
  
    "Mother and Father didn't want a mage child," she said simply. "I was very young, really almost still a toddler, when they realised I was one. Father trained me. He was extremely strict, wouldn't let me be done until I'd mastered a particular day's lesson, and I was always exhausted after that. Those are my first memories—learning magic with Father, and being tired." She sighed again. "When I was seven, the twins were born. That's all."  
  
    "What do you mean, that's all?"  
  
    "I mean, that's the extent of my relationship with Mother and Father. Once the twins were born, I existed only as someone who was there to compare to them."  
  
    "That can't be true."  
  
    Hawke laughed bitterly. "You think not? Everything of mine went to the twins. Even my room went to them. It was beside Mother and Father's room, and Mother wanted to be able to hear the twins if they woke in the night. So I got the attic."  
  
    "The attic?"  
  
    "The attic. Father tried to make it up pretty for me, but it was still the attic. I managed to rescue some of my books from the twins, and a blanket which actually had my name on it. That was all I salvaged from my childhood. Carver turned out to be the non-mage child they had hoped for, and Bethany turned out to be the little princess that Mother had always wanted."  
  
    "This just sounds like regular sibling stuff, one believing that the other is favoured."  
  
    "One day I went for a walk in the woods outside Lothering. One of the local farmers must have seen me going, and he followed me, stopped me. Told me it was dangerous for a girl to be out alone. Petted my hair, gave me a grope, told me that as long as I didn't make a sound he wouldn't hurt me too badly."  
  
    Anders frowned. "What did you do?"  
  
    "I gave him a knee to the groin and ran home, and locked myself in my room, and didn't go down for supper."  
  
    "What did your parents do?"  
  
    "Punished me for not going down for supper."  
  
    "But what did they do about that man?" he pressed.  
  
    "Nothing," Hawke said. "I didn't tell them."  
  
    "Didn't they notice you were upset?"  
  
    "They only noticed that Carver had gotten a black eye in a fight with a boy in the village, and they demanded to know why I hadn't been there to stop the fight."  
  
    "But you weren't even with him, were you?"  
  
    "I was never with them, Anders. Mother never let me touch them as babies. She was afraid I'd hurt them with my magic. So I never developed any interest in going anywhere or doing anything with them. Mother and Father expected me to be always looking out for them, but the fact was that their lives and my life barely intersected." She sighed. "When Father died, the responsibility for the family fell to me. But Mother sort of expected Carver to be the man of the house, and at the same time she expected him to defer to me. So you can see why he hated me so much."  
  
    "I never saw any hatred," Anders said slowly. "Maybe a little resentment. But you got to know one another better."  
  
    "Only because he had no one else. You know, he and Bethany had this little language of their own. They would talk to one another in it so no one would know what they were saying. Carver literally lost the best half of himself when Bethany died."  
  
    "You all lost something, though."  
  
    "No," Hawke said, and her voice was suddenly sad. "I didn't lose her. I never had her. She was Carver's, and she was Mother's, but she was never mine. Mother still blames me for her death, and she blames me for Carver being a Warden now, and she blames me for Father—"  
  
    "Your father died of an illness," Anders argued.  
  
    "And Bethany threw herself at an ogre. And if Carver hadn't become a Warden, he would have died. Mother still blames me. I can see it in her eyes every time she mentions the family. So don't tell me that I should be nicer to her, Anders. She never fails to dig that knife a little deeper, every chance she gets." Her back was tense against his chest. Anders pressed his face against the back of her neck. "I cut off my hair," she went on with a sigh, "the day after that farmer threatened me. I never was pretty, but my hair had never been cut, and that always got attention from people."  
  
    "How long was it? I can't imagine you with long hair."  
  
    "Just past my waist. Father had given me a knife for protection, a little hunting knife. I pulled my hair up in the back and just sliced it all off with the knife."  
  
    "What did your parents say?"  
  
    "Mother slapped me. Left a mark that was still there the next morning. Father just looked—a little sad. But he never said anything to me about it."  
  
    He frowned. "Why did your mother slap you?"  
  
    "I don't know. She's never told me. It felt good to know that she hadn't been able to stop me from doing it, though, so I just—kept chopping it off, whenever it got a little longer."  
  
    "You know there are people you can pay to do that for you."  
  
    "Why bother? I don't get by on my looks."  
  
    "You probably could. You just choose not to."  
  
    "Anders, I'm all bones and angles. Not attractive in a woman."  
  
    "Very attractive to me," he said. "I fell in love with the whole Hawke, not just the beautiful body and not just the devious mind." He gave her a squeeze.  
  
    "Now you're flirting with me. Do I get to have sex now?"  
  
    "Maybe."  
  
    She squirmed around to face him. "Maybe? I just told you everything."  
  
    "I don't think you did. You gave me the highlights."  
  
    "My life," she assured him, "until we fled the blight, was entirely unventful. I practised with Father, I did chores around the house, I was always told I had to be a good role model for the twins. I avoided people lest they find out I was a mage." She reached up in the dark and touched his cheek, rested her hand there. "It's only been since I came to Kirkwall that I've been able to be myself and not hide away. And I realised what a terrible person I am."  
  
    He turned his head and kissed her palm. "I happen to love you," he told her. "You're not terrible at all. You're very much like living with a cat."  
  
    "What does that mean?"  
  
    "You come and go as you please and you seem to expect me to do the same. You've never once asked me where I've been or where I'm going, and most times don't tell me where you're off to if I don't ask."  
  
    "I don't own you, Anders. You're a grown man. One who can't seem to pick up his own socks, but a man nonetheless."  
  
    He grinned. "My socks are there so anyone else coming in will know I've been, and that I'll be back. Scent-marking, you know."  
  
    Hawke snorted, faintly amused. "Maybe you're the cat, not me."  
  
    "And you don't actually seem to care what anyone does unless it affects you directly. When you decide you want attention you get it or everyone around you will hear about it. And you're the champion of lazy afternoon naps. And you wreck things and wonder why people get upset with you for wrecking things, 'cos you're just going about your day and things just happen to get wrecked. You're definitely a cat." He heard her smile, and was gratified when she relaxed and cuddled closer. He kissed her nose. "Now, tell me just one more thing."  
  
    "What?"  
  
    "Anything," he said. "Anything you want to tell me, something I don't know about you."  
  
    "Have I ever told you that I kind of like you?"  
  
    "You're always feeding me and exchanging body fluids with me, so even though you never say the words, I sort of assumed it. I want something I don't already know about."  
  
    Hawke was silent for a long time, her breath shallow and even. "Some days," she said at last, "I just feel like shouting a big _fuck you_ to all of Kirkwall, and walking away and never looking back."  
  
    Anders touched his tongue to his lower lip a moment. "Why?"  
  
    "Because I don't like it."  
  
    "Why do you stay, then?"  
  
    "Friends," she said. "Mother. You." She made a little motion like a shrug. "Would you come with me if I left?"  
  
    "Without a single regret."  
  
    She leaned up and kissed his mouth, sucked on his lower lip a moment, sighed and tucked her face against his neck. Anders smoothed her silky hair with his hand, reached down and pulled her whole body against him, and Hawke tucked an arm around his middle, her knee between his, and she fell silent.  
  
    Anders was just drifting to sleep when Hawke spoke again. "I wouldn't leave you behind anyway, no matter what."  
  
    He opened his eyes and stared into the dark. "What if I did something terrible?" he murmured.  
  
    She considered this. "What kind of terrible? Like, something to my mother, or Carver?"  
  
    "I would never harm your family, Hawke," he told her. "But you never know. People do—strange things. Terrible things."  
  
    "I don't care," she told him at last. "As long as you don't hurt my family, I don't care." She pulled away from him, sat up and peered down at him. "You gave yourself  to me and you've never taken that back, even though I treat you as badly as I treat everyone else. You've never even slept with anyone else since we started."  
  
    "Why would I?" he wondered. "We're pretty good together."  
  
    "I would never have stopped you if you'd wanted someone else," she told him. "But you never have. And now I want to keep you to myself. I know it's selfish."  
  
    "Go right ahead," he said. "I don't want to be kept by anyone else." He stretched, comfortable and warm.  
  
    Hawke dropped to cuddle next to him again, wrapped herself around him and sighed. "Good," she said. "Then when I finally tell Kirkwall to fuck off, I'm taking you with me."  
  
    Anders tucked his arms around her and kissed her forehead. "All right."  
  
    "And don't think I've forgotten about the sex. I'm going to sleep now, but I expect it in the morning."  
  
    "Yes, I love you too, Hawke."

**Author's Note:**

> This exercise was interesting to me because (my) Hawke has trouble expressing her emotions—she's always suppressed everything about herself—and she has even more trouble admitting how she feels to herself. It's also interesting to me that while I was writing it, Carver and Bethany's way of looking at Hawke and their relationship to her came out, and what they saw was quite different from what Hawke saw. They perceived her as very involved with the family, but also saw not that their parents ignored Hawke, but that she was good (behaviourally - Carver; magically - Bethany) and because of that their parents gave her the independence that the twins so craved. I may explore the twins' POVs later, though Carver is currently in the middle of adventures-being-written with Anders in this same timeline, so...


End file.
